


Sticks & Stones

by hangonsilvergirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, First War with Voldemort, MWPP Era, Marauders, Multi, POV Multiple, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangonsilvergirl/pseuds/hangonsilvergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A canon-compliant account of the Order of the Phoenix during the First War with Voldemort, told from multiple POVS (1973-81).</p><p>"<i>Somewhere, always, in the back of the mind of every human being, is a maudlin, probably poetic portrait of a time long gone (but </i>never<i> forgotten!), when men were men and women were women, and when good triumphed over evil; when the world was made better and humanity heartened by sacrifice and heroism, God Bless It All.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- Story will span 1973 - 1981, and will probably be ridiculously humongous by the time it's done.
> 
> \- Story is largely based on personally developed headcanons, over-exposure to fanfiction and roleplay that I've adopted as head-canon (no complaints here), and inspiration from characters developed by some of the amazing people I've RP'd with over the last 14 (!!) years.
> 
> -Story will depict violence and character death, but not explicit sexual content.
> 
> \- Story is from the POV of the Order of the Phoenix (mostly), not Death Eaters, though it will still feature a Peter Pettigrew POV.
> 
> \- I have been researching the shit out of all of this, but please let me know if you see any continuity errors, Brit-speak and/or Briticism errors, incorrect information in any capacity, grammar/spelling issues, and/or anything else that's questionable. I really do want this to be as true to form as possible.
> 
> \- Tags will be updated as new chapters are posted.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Early March 1973** , Hogwarts School for Witchcraft & Wizardry, Library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Friday, 2 March 1973_ | Muggleborn Rights advocate Eloise Parrish is discovered by early morning shopkeepers, dead and attached to a tree in the middle of Diagon Alley via permanent sticking charm. A Muggleborn herself, Eloise was a journalist for the Daily Prophet, and a week prior wrote an impassioned editorial blasting the ‘so-called’ Death Eaters and calling Lord Voldemort a ‘power-hungry idiot’. She is stripped naked and has crudely etched dark marks carved all over her body. In the end, unable to remove Eloise from the tree, the tree itself is removed from Diagon Alley. It is later reported that, after the investigations into her death were completed, and with her family’s permission, Eloise’s body was burnt along with the tree by magical fire. No arrests are made.
> 
> \- The first war began in earnest in early 1970, though there were plenty of rumblings, indicators and lead-up, as well as isolated incidents, in the 1960s. These were committed by the then named Knights of Walpurgis, re-styled as the Death Eaters by at least 1969. The first Dark Mark appeared in the sky in December of 1969, one week before Christmas.

The edges of war, historically, are almost always tinged with romanticism, because the farther humanity gets away from something, the more likely they are to forget how it actually _was_. ‘Time heals all wounds’ is the supposition, and perhaps it’s a good thing that humankind has been given the ability to selectively retain glorious bursts of happiness over crippling decades of panic. Time masks the true gravity of grief and fear. It gets glossed over with more platitudes--life goes on, such is life, c’est la vie, it’s in the past, it’s God’s will, _it could be worse_ , you’ll get over it, get on with your life, tomorrow’s another day, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, perception is reality, _it is what it is_ \--on and on and _on_ in vicious cycles of perpetually self-excusing vindication. Say it enough times and the lines between reality and bullshit get blurred. The human race can trust in that, because, well... _Time will tell_ , or so they say.

Cliches are self-fulfilling prophecies, though, because life _does_ go on. It is going on now, was going on then (whenever _then_ was), and will continue _to_ go on well outside any and all predictions for the future. When society looks back on the what wases, all the beginnings, happily ever afters, and in betweens are bright red bullseyes, and heroes and villains are coloured appropriately. Landmark moments are dog eared so that everything from self-sacrifice to a General’s idle nose scratching can later be broken down and over-analyzed, so as to be projected enthusiastically back at the world. Somewhere, always, in the back of the mind of every human being, is a maudlin, probably poetic portrait of a time long gone (but _never_ forgotten!), when men were men and women were women, and when good triumphed over evil; when the world was made better and humanity heartened by sacrifice and heroism, God Bless It All.

Is the world evolving backwards or forwards?

Another great inanity is that hindsight is 20/20. The hoi polloi have ingrained this mantra onto their collective subconscious so as to remind themselves that they are neither prophetic nor omniscient. Commonly juxtaposed with war, whether as a definition or a specific reference, this statement implies that if they had had all the information the first time, things probably wouldn’t have went the way they did. _They_ should stop lying to themselves. They did and _will_ hear the whispers, did and _will_ feel realization crawling coldly up their backs, raising the hairs on their necks. They did and _will_ not-so-calmly dismiss very _real_ fears in favor of _life going on_ , and they did and _will_ cling to the mundane as though wishing hard enough for an alternate reality might anchor them to the daydream. They did and _will_ accept the truth too late to change the tide. (Oh, that’s another one! _History is doomed to repeat itself_!)

War is not _just_ a result of butting egos and insanity, though those are absolutely indispensable in fanning flame to inferno. Single-minded determination is also an asset, and so is having a body of like-minded supporters backing the Cause (blindly, tentatively, stupidly, out of fear, etc). Adversaries countering whatever-it-is is absolutely requisite. The most integral component of war, though, is that the vast majority of people should do their very best to pretend it isn’t happening at all. For example, the blood war that emerged in Britain in the early 1970s didn’t begin there no more than it ended with the systematic murder of proactive vigilantes, or with the supposed victory of the Boy Who Lived. It didn’t begin with the death of a Muggleborn schoolgirl in a flooded bathroom in 1943. It didn’t begin within the stark walls of a London orphanage in 1937, either. It began in 1926 with a unloved young wretch’s desperate want of familial belonging and affection, with the birth of a baby who would, himself, never learn to love.

Take off your blinders. Don’t tell your neighbors that _you did the best you could_.

***

Patience was not high on Sirius Black’s list of virtues, and he was losing it.

He wasn’t a perpetual fidgeter the way James was, but Remus expecting Sirius to be uncomplaining in having to _quietly sit still_ for more than five minutes was still something of an unrealistic expectation. Which, really, Remus should have known. Sirius was the anti-Remus. Sirius was to Remus what tornadoes were to dilapidated barns and un-tethered cows. Where Sirius lived and breathed unrestrained and uncensored chaos, Remus colour-coded his sock drawer and made lists for his lists’ lists. Remus’ mild-mannerly-isms compared to Sirius the Rabid Gazelle was a laughable contrast, particularly on a Friday night in the _library_ , up to their ears in newspaper, while it felt to Sirius (however melodramatically) that their youth was waning around them. _And they’d been at it for twenty bloody minutes_!

It was Sirius’ own opinion that Remus’ sadistic employ of this cruel and unusual punishment was in retaliation for the oatmeal that had been put in his hair that morning, and that while un-creative it was probably fair _to a point_. Then again, knowing Remus and his Remus Sense of Fun _or lack thereof_ , looking at photo ops of Ministry dignitaries cutting ribbons and kissing babies was probably his idea of a kicker of a weekend, right along with staying up past 10pm, wearing a cardigan that was a _colour_ instead of a shade of brown, and, for a rip-roaring change of pace, _reading bleeding poetry in the commons_.

It was also Sirius’ own opinion that Remus needed a crash course in being a thirteen-year-old boy.

“ _Look_ ,” he finally burst in exasperation, more loudly than he’d intended, startling both Remus and Madam Pince, _the only other people in the ruddy library_. The former had jumped in his seat before fixing on Sirius with a glassy, befuddled expression like he was coming out of a fog. The librarian seemed more stunned by the presence of students than anything else, though she did give Sirius a disapproving once-over for the sake of appearances. Sirius dutifully ignored her. “Remus. _Remus_. Why are we _here_.”

Remus blinked. “I. What?”

“I know you stole your soul from a very old man, but do you not occasionally, even if _very_ occasionally, want to do _not old man things_?”

Remus flushed, and he frowned. “ _Sirius_ , if you don’t--”

“I hate to be the one to drop this bombshell, Remus, but reading newspapers is _not_ fun. I think that there’s a law, or something, that says you can _only_ put incredibly _not_ entertaining things in newspapers so to appease boring, boring people who do not want their everlasting boredom interrupted by _events_.” Remus’ flush deepened and, happy to be getting a reaction, Sirius leaned in on his elbows across the table. Despite or perhaps in spite of his lack of patience, he started to grin. “Even the funnies aren’t funny. They’re not even _punny_. There is not a chortle or guffaw or _any_ reaction outside of ‘mm, yes, indeed’ to be had in _any_ of this. It is Friday night _sacrilege_.”

“I didn’t realize that days of the week could be blasphemed against,” Remus commented dryly.

“Little known fact,” Sirius returned, grin broadening. “Weekends are holy to proper teenagers.”

“Well, thank _Merlin_ I’m not one of _those_.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Sirius clucked, shaking his head, smile and purpose undampened by Remus’ dismissal. “You are clearly deluded by your lack of exposure to impropriety. Lucky for you, you have _me_ , Master Sirius Black, slayer of all things _fuddy_ and _duddy_.”

“Insanity must be such a relief from the confines of reality, Sirius.” At the very least Sirius had succeeded in getting Remus to put his newspaper _down_ and engage in conversation, even if it was a directionless distraction. Remus leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and blowing his hair out of his eyes. Before Sirius could respond, he added, “If you think that this is so boring, then why’d you come when I suggested it?”

Sirius shrugged. “I thought it was a euphemism and that you were finally going to reveal your closet deviance. Or perhaps I deluded myself.”

Remus snorted.

“Don’t laugh, you _charlatan_. You do _not_ know how to show a girl a good time, Remus Lupin. This is a _terrible_ date.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t take a _girl_ on a date to the _library_. We were talking about the Parrish murder this morning, you remember? Before you put your breakfast on my _head_? About how I wanted to find out more about it beyond student gossip, and you said yeah, you’d like to hear more about the fire?”

Scrunching his nose, Sirius bobbed his head noncommittally, though what Remus was saying was ringing a bell or two. “I was preoccupied with the oatmeal. You were talking about fire, though, so saying yes seemed a good bet from my perspective.”

“Well you do wave _your_ deviance around.”

“Unlike _some_ poor, repressed people I could name. Look, not the point. Okay, so you wanted to find out more details, fine, but that’s like, two seconds worth of work and then it’s back to mayhem given there’s a great bleeding castle at our disposal, as, funnily, it’s possible to discuss the details thoroughly and _simultaneously_ to wreaking havoc and etcetera.”

“Well we’d have more details faster if you weren’t huffing and pouting and silently whinging over there, and reading the unfunny funnies instead of looking up what we came here to look up.” Remus raised his eyebrows accusatorily. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Sirius huffed. “I’ll have you know I was _very_ diligently investigating.”

“Sirius, up until literally a moment ago you had no idea why you were here.”

“Well. _Bollocks_. But I _was_ the picture of respectful silence, don’t you _dare_ go tarnishing my reputation.”

“Not on my honor as queen of England.”

Sirius fully leaned forward and put his chin in his hands, exaggeratedly pouting. “ _Remus_. You are evading the issue, you _slag_. All the while, here’s my life force, just _whiling_ away! I shall be reduced to a vegetative state if I do not soon get up to _something_ resembling shenanigans, and _ASAP_ and on _your_ head be it if I am.”

Remus shook his head incredulously. “It is impossible to take you seriously, Sirius. You talk in run-on sentences and fling around more italics than a swooning damsel.”

“That is because I am _distressed_!”

“In the head, yes, clearly.”

“ _Rude_!” Sirius said again, with more fervor, sitting back upright. “My distress aside since you apparently don’t give two hoots, have you found what you were looking for, and if so _can we please leave_?”

Remus sighed and started collecting up the newspaper sheets, sorting them into something resembling the proper order. “Well whether or not I have is inconsequential if you’re not going to let me be, so we might as well; I’m not likely to accomplish much if you’re just going to mope at me for the rest of the evening.”

To this Sirius whooped gleefully, eliciting another half-hearted glare from Madam Pince. He grinned widely at her and started shuffling his half of the paper maelstrom into a haphazard pile. “ _Wick-ed_ ,” he sing-songed distractedly. “I’m thinking we go down to the kitchens and get a shit-load of syrup, and just _flood_ James’ bed. The pillock is stalking Lily Evans, which is _nearly_ as unacceptable an extracurricular on a weekend as knocking about in the library. _Almost_.”

“Mmm, _almost_ ,” Remus echoed, with no malice and a hint of amusement. “And how, pray tell, will we be transporting a _shit-load_ of syrup, undetected, from the kitchen to Gryffindor tower?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Black, Sirius Orion** (a.k.a. Padfoot)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 12 October 1959, ages 13-22
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Pureblood, Animagus (dog)
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor 1971-78, quidditch beater (73-78)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Curse Breaker trainee (1978-81)
>   * **Joined the Order** : September 1978
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : James Potter, Lily Evans
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : Peter Pettigrew
>   * **Canon Fate** : Peter Pettigrew's conniving sees Sirius framed as Pettigrew's murderer, and as the traitor who sold James and Lily Potter to Lord Voldemort. Sirius is arrested after a public confrontation between himself and Pettigrew results in the latter's disappearance (unbeknownst to the rest of the wizarding world) and the deaths of twelve innocent Muggles. Sirius spends 12 years in Azkaban before escaping in 1993 and subsequently proving himself a good (if reckless) godfather to Harry Potter. He is later murdered by his cousin and convicted Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange. His innocence on all accounts is declared posthumously. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 

> 
> ***
> 
>  **Lupin, Remus John** (a.k.a. Moony)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 10 March 1960, ages 13-21
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Halfblood (muggle mother, wizard father), Werewolf
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor 1971-78, Prefect (75-78)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Odd jobs (librarian, book store clerk, manual labor, etc; 1978-81)
>   * **Joined the Order** : September 1978
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : James Potter, Lily Evans
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : Peter Pettigrew
>   * **Canon Fate** : Remus survives the First War and has considerable difficulty, thanks to his being a werewolf, holding down a job. He is hired in 1993 by Albus Dumbledore to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts while his former friend, Sirius Black, is at large. Remus becomes a mentor to Harry and teaches his old friend's son how to cast a patronus charm. Remus ultimately discovers Peter Pettigrew's betrayal and reunites with Sirius; he rejoins the Order of the Phoenix and participates in the second war, greatly through undercover work with other werewolves. He marries Nymphadora Tonks, and together they have a son, Teddy; Harry is named godfather. Remus is killed, alongside his wife, during the Battle of Hogwarts. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mid-March 1973** , Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement (colloquially know as the DMLE), Auror Office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Thursday, 8 March 1973_ | Voters in Northern Ireland vote to remain part of the United Kingdom; Provisional Irish Republican Army bombs explode in Whitehall and the Old Bailey.
> 
> \- _Sunday, 11 March 1973_ | Chaos reigns in Tinworth. A group of approximately ten Death Eaters descend on both the magical and muggle areas of the village after nightfall, setting houses ablaze, torturing muggles, massively abusing the Unforgivable curses, and killing hundreds of muggle and wizarding men, women and children alike. The front cover of the Daily Prophet the next morning features a full page photo of the destruction from a distance, the Dark Mark gleaming eerily in the sky above the scene. The madness is corralled by seasoned Aurors Edgar Bones and Frank Longbottom, respective team heads of B and A, co-heads of the swing shift team. The DMLE is woefully unprepared for the attack, and Bones and Longbottom, plus seven other Aurors, struggle on their own for nearly forty minutes (having apparated into the fray a good 20 minutes in) before reinforcements arrive and the onslaught is stopped. There are no DMLE causalities, or Death Eater casualties to the knowledge of the Ministry. No arrests are made.
> 
> \- Auror C Team headed by Rufus Scrimgeour, Auror D Team headed by Alastor Moody.
> 
> \- Current Minister for Magic: Oxford Kettle.

The second floor of the Ministry of Magic, hosting the sprawling Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had been a nonstop, throbbing swarm of perpetually harried and engrossed people for, now, four years straight. Beyond the oak doors around the corner from the lift, the Auror office was worse than the rest of the department altogether, in a near-constant state of aggravated consternation, not because there were too many questions, but rather because there were not _nearly_ enough answers. The office vibrated with the invariable throng of harassed aurors--between the trainees being put through their paces in triplicate, rookies whipping about like the fear of the Almighty had been instilled in them, and the vets barking streams and streams of warnings and directions--so much so that the room itself felt nearly sentient. The perpetual flurry at least meant that no Auror had to worry about his or her reaction time getting rusty; memos and sealed casefiles and tagged evidence and _donuts_ zoomed around the room, bouncing between cubicles and pinboards, evidenced mainly (beyond the things doing the zooming, obviously) by oddly out-of-place gloops and streaks of dried jelly every which where, and on the ceiling in particular.

Edgar Bones had been with the department for going on twelve years, and never in that time had he experienced such a high level of professional hysteria. Even when You Know Who was first rising to power he would’ve laughed at the very idea of the present state of affairs, thinking it completely impossible that they could’ve ever gotten so far gone given they were meant to be the _crème de la crème_ , the Ministry’s elite line of defense (ignoring just how truly un-glamourous dark wizard catching actually is). Now either un-phased or well-conditioned, he dodged a particularly messy looking bear-claw as he weaved his way through the scrum to Oz Rankin’s office. Oz, the department head, had summoned him from training the newest group of mouthy blighters in non-verbal defensive magic about an hour before, but Ed had gotten easily distracted by his lesson. It never ceased to amaze him how idiotic and foolhardy bleeding teenagers were, nor did it ever cease to amuse him to beat the tar out of them in demonstration while getting paid for it. Ed loathed the idea of his children ever reaching the ages of contempt for authority and of self-stroking egos. Evander, at 10, was too close now for comfort, especially since Ed doubted that his wife, Calypso, would let him run training simulations at home.

Ed wasn’t sure what had spurred the call to a meeting, but honestly he wasn’t surprised; not that he hadn’t been getting on with enough responsibility managing the B team and flipping the swing leads with Frank Longbottom, but he’d been involved in a lot of hush hush strategy meetings with Oz, Fred Svenski (the deputy department head), Alastor Moody, and D.M.L.E. head Barty Crouch and his team. Edgar had been putting it to his essentially having taken over the dueling portion of the training program in the last six months, figuring they needed the prominent shaper of young idiot’s minds to be abreast of the real severity of the Ministry’s downward spiral.

The Parrish murder in itself had been nauseating, bordering-on-hyperbolic insanity. Edgar’s team had responded to the scene and he sincerely doubted he’d ever get the image of that poor woman’s desecrated corpse out of his head; it had been the first real dose of gore for a lot of his greenhorns, and two had had to put in for mental health leave. Then Sunday had been the Tinworth riots, which he and Frank had practically put a stopper in on their own before Scrimgeour and the C team were finally called in to back it up. (He’d been having nightmares of the screaming, and of Dark Marks, when he managed to sleep.) Beyond that, Ed could barely bring himself to give a shit about Northern Ireland and the vote, except that naturally the muggle prime Minister thought that the Provisional Irish Republican Army was in league with the Death Eaters and that magic was somehow responsible for the bombings in Whitehall and the Old Bailey.

Reaching Oz’s office the secretary waved him in absently. She was in the middle of what looked liked a very heated (pun unintended) floo argument with a gentleman’s head that Ed dimly recognized as belonging to Fabian Prewett, who, Ed well knew, spun all sorts of tripe in the Minister’s PR office. For good measure and his own amusement he flipped Prewett the bird, eliciting a snort from Oz’s secretary. Prewett winked lewdly and blew Ed a kiss as he walked into his boss’ office.

“‘Lo,” Edgar said as he marched through, shutting the door behind him.

“Bones,” Oz answered, gruff as always. He was distractedly pacing, and Ed noted that he looked a little more pinched that usual, which was a considerable feat given the political climate. Oz gestured to a worn, red leather chair that Edgar’s arse had occupied any number of times. “Have a seat.”

“Cheers,” Ed replied, plopping down and stretching out his legs and up his arms, satisfyingly cracking each limb. He was sore as all hell. He might look down his nose at spotty youngsters, but Ed wished dearly that he could’ve aged mentally, but kept the body he had when he was eighteen. “Ugh, Merlin. If this is getting old, I don’t bloody well like it.”

Oz offered Edgar a crooked, forced-seeming smile, and shook his head. “What are you now, Bones? Fifteen?”

Edgar grinned. He was 29, not quite 30, and looked about 24. He was solidly built from his years as an auror (and played quidditch through Hogwarts before that), tall and lean, with short-cropped light blond hair, the exact white yellow that the Bones family was, subjectively, famous for. His eyes were bright blue and he’d eluded wrinkles so far; Ed had even managed to avoid acquiring any macabre facial scars in the line of duty. His teeth were white and straight despite his pack-a-day habit and his regularly drinking his weight in coffee, and his family’s money showed clearly through the waistcoat, shirt, trousers and tie he neatly sported under his robes. His looks were fully, traditionally aristocratic, the Bones family the fair counter to _Toujour Pur_ in England’s pureblooded wizarding society. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, mate.”

Oz chuckled distracted, then sat himself down opposite Edgar, leaning in on his elbows on the desk. He half made eye contact, half avoided Ed’s steady gaze altogether. “So. How’s the wife?”

Ed blinked. “Uh. She’s good? Birthing babies as per usual.” Cally was a midwife. Ed registered the out of blue question as odd given he literally could _not_ remember the last time Oz had asked after his family, in any capacity. He lived and breathed the department and, so far as Ed had figured, couldn’t care less if Ed shacked up with a pumpkin in his spare time so long as it wasn’t a Death Eater and didn’t interfere with his work.

“And the kids?”

Ed raised his eyebrows before shrugging. “Fine? Schooling with my mother at the estate, spending time with their mates, doing what they do. Ev’s nuts for quidditch, Penny’s inherited her uncle’s penchant for potions, and Noah’s fascination with dragons prevails, to Cally's chagrin.”

“Good, good,” Oz replied quietly, absently. After a quiet moment, he asked, “Any garden parties, lately?”

Ed's mouth opened in shock and he fixed on his superior with a mix between mind-boggled exasperation and complete and utter confusion. “Oz. What the hell.”

“Well, you know,” Oz waved a dismissive hand, trying and (in Edgar’s opinion) failing to appear nonchalant. “You’ve got an eclectic family tree, Bones. I bet you always come out of parties with one or two good stories.”

“ _Ri-ight_ ,” Ed replied slowly, incredulously, sitting up a bit in his seat. “So you broke up a training run early to have me come up here and dazzle you with familial anecdotes? Are you having a go, or has the over-work finally driven me to hallucinate?”

“No. Well. Yes, but no. To the anecdotes, I mean.”

Ed stared. “ _Raving_. So this is it, then? The pressure’s finally sent you round the twist, is it?”

“No, Bones, bollocks to this. Look,” Oz closed his eyes, mumbling incoherently under his breath before opening them again. “Look, he repeated, and ran a hand over his bald head, looking maniacal, determined, and mildly alarming. “Everyone around here knows _you_ don’t give one horny hippogriff about your blinkered relatives, or about blood and shite. Same with Amelia, not to mention your buggering brother’s faffing about with _Damocles Belby_ for fucks’ sake, trying to cure _werewolves_ , it’s not--” He took a deep breath. “ _Look_ ,” he said for the third time, and Ed wondered seriously which of the two of them was currently losing their mind. “Crouch is a paranoid tit.”

“You are making _no_ sense.”

“No, no I’m not.” Oz sighed again Then, looking resigned, explained: “They’re making Millicent Bagnold the Minister’s advisor, and the Minister wants Fred in the Undersecretary position.”

“ _Oh_. Oh well, that’s. Uh. What in the name of all that is good and holy does that have to do with whether or not I rub elbows with the nutters on my family tree? Or _Crouch_?”

“I want to make you deputy.”

Ed narrowed his eyes. “ _What_.”

“ _I want to make you deputy_ ,” Oz repeated, “and Crouch thinks you’d probably manage it fine, based on our pow wows, but he also thinks your family’s a little too… _entrenched_ in the culture.”

Edgar was still sort of gaping. “ _Wanking Merlin_.” 

“Preaching to the choir, Bones. Fred and I batted for you, trust me, but Crouch is so afraid of the God damn dark that he won’t sleep with a light on for fear the Death Eaters manifest themelves out of the bloody shadows or summat. There’s no sense to him. It’s like he thinks they’re waging war on him personally." Oz clucked his tongue. "He wants Alastor to take it.”

“Why wouldn’t you give it to Moody in the first place? He’s got the seniority, and he’s certainly better and more experienced in the field than I am.”

“Doesn’t want it. Thinks you’d be better suited to it, and I agree, especially after Tinworth. You and Frank are a fearsome bloody pair. Lucky you got out of it alive. Not to mention you’ve half taken over running the department anyway. I mean, really, you might as well get the galleons and the glory.”

“So. So, what, then? Do I. Am I? Or. I mean.” Ed scrunched up his nose, looking thoughtfully baffled. “We’re borderline bloodtraitors. And if Jon marries Olive, _which he will_ , and Mother and Father don’t disown him, _which they won’t_ , then _we will be_. Between that and Tinworth, and whatever else, what other sort of song and dance would I have to pull-- He can’t just lump _all_ the purebloods into the same category, he’s one _himself_ for the love of Circe.”

“That’s why you get the title on probation and I’m meant to carry out surveillance to see if you’ve _defected_.”

“That’s a fucking crock, not to mention a waste of Ministry resources in _war time_.”

“Tell me about it,” Oz replied dryly, obviously exhausted. “I’m _zonked_ ,” he added echoing Edgar’s observation. “I’ve been fighting him tooth and nail for two bloody weeks, Bones, and this is the compromise. Take it or leave it.”

Despite his irritation, Ed started to smile. “Well you didn’t have to play shit-arse spy, which you’re terrible at by the by. You could’ve just come out and said it if you were going to anyhow, I thought you’d lost your marbles.” Deputy Head of the Auror Department, and not even fucking _thirty_. Father was going to have a heart attack. Ed’s smile turned into a grin and got wider and wider. “The trainees are going to _weep_.”

“Oh, I have. Trust me. And stop looking so gleefully diabolical. It’s unnerving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bones, Edgar Humphrey** (a.k.a. Ed, Eddie, Bonesie)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 15 May 1943, ages 29-38
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Pureblood
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor 1954-61, quidditch chaser (56-61), Prefect (58-60) & Head Boy (60-61)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Auror (1961-81), Team Leader (B & Swing; 1966-73), Dueling Training (1972-81), Deputy Head of the Auror Department (1973-81)
>   * **Joined the Order** : April 1973
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Alastor Moody
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : Frank & Alice Longbottom, Dorcas Meadowes
>   * **Canon Fate** : Edgar is killed before the end of the war, shortly after the infamous Order photo is taken. He is murdered by Death Eaters alongside his wife, children, and parents. They are survived by Edgar's brother, sister-in-law, niece, and sister. His niece, Susan, goes on to attend Hogwarts with Harry Potter, and Edgar's sister, Amelia, rises to prominence as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement by the mid-1990s. In 1996 she is murdered by Voldemort. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mid-March 1973** , St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies, Department of Advanced Potions Research (Offices of Mr. Damocles Belby and Mr. Jonathan Bones, Coordinators and Head Researchers for the _Wolfsbane_ Project.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Thursday, 15 March 1973_ | With the Ministry slowly losing control as Lord Voldemort gains more support and power, Albus Dumbledore contacts his oldest friend Elphias Doge, brother Aberforth Dumbledore, trusted co-worker Minerva McGonagall, and celebrated Auror Alastor Moody; the Order of the Phoenix is formed. After considerable discussion, the group concludes that before anything resembling 'action' might be taken, they must collect, between them, as much pertinent information as possible. With Alastor and Elphias posed at the Ministry, Aberforth's less-than-reputable pub acting as an attraction for the seedy and the greedy, and Minerva and Albus ever-watchful over their students (and notwithstanding Dumbledore being... you know. Dumbledore.), the wizarding world's newest vigilantes set forth with a dedication to unearthing as much as they are able.
> 
> \- _Wolfsbane_ Project research began in 1968, as a side-project of Damocles Belby. Jonathan Bones joined the project in 1971, backing it with a generous donation from the Bones family estate. Mortimer Blande (a renowned, private, medicinal potioneer) began consulting on the project in January 1973, providing a generous donation of his own. Due to the heavy backing, particularly of the Bones family, the project was eligible for a larger percentage of government funding as of February 1973, putting the project itself more in the public eye. Toted as having the potential to cure lycanthropy, it has met with mixed opinions as to its merit from the public, and the government itself.

There’s a man the secretary doesn’t recognize standing in the doorway, and she’s sort of infatuated.

It’s not because he’s particularly good looking, or even _not_ so; he strikes her as the sort of person whose attractiveness is challenging to define because it’s more about the aura surrounding him than anything related to his physical appearance. That said, he’s _quite_ tall, and lanky, wearing muggle corduroy bellbottoms and a paisley printed shirt under his trainee healer robes, and looking in desperate need of a trim of his shaggy, sort-of tawny hair. She thinks he can’t be much out of Hogwarts, and that his long, slender nose and deep-set, pale green eyes are weirdly hypnotizing. When he arrived she’d asked if she could help with anything (versus being accusatory of his presence as a _trainee_ loitering about in _advanced potions research_ ), and he’d simply smiled, lopsided with crooked teeth, and told her that he was waiting for somebody.

She’d been trying since to stop idly staring at him out of the corner of her eye, and was to the point of mostly succeeding when a woman in a red dress and robes appeared. The secretary recognized her immediately as being Mrs. Emmeline Vance.

She, too, was young, though her perpetual lack of a smile aged her about five years, easy. (The secretary had come associate the young woman’s brusqueness with her marriage being an arranged one; she’d learned that after Mrs. Vance’s sister had married Mr. Bones’ older brother, a precedent was set for good matches for the rest of her siblings, and so old Mr. Gamp had paired them all off lickety-split. Imagine being 20-years-old and married to someone you didn’t love, against your will! Seemed to verge on _tragedy_ to the Muggleborn secretary, who’d probably read too much Shakespeare.) Mrs. Vance was about six months pregnant and impeccably coiffed, as the wives of the upper crust were wont to be. Any number of the orderlies joked that the only colours she saw in were red, white and yellow; she wore red clothing only, red lipstick, red shoes, and spoke to them all with a terseness that suggested her temper was a matching shade. The only difference was in her platinum blonde bouffant (nary a hair would dare be out of place, today or any other day), the pearls in her ears, and the three strings of thick, matching pearls around her neck.

She glanced sidelong at the stranger in the doorway but otherwise ignored him, moving purposefully toward the secretary, who was seated, shamelessly riveted, at her desk.

“Good morning, Mrs. Vance,” she said with forced cheer, wary. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you. Good morning,” Mrs. Vance answered, in a clipped tone that suggested she only managed as much because propriety decreed it necessary. “I believe there are notes here for me?”

The entire office was of the opinion that Mrs. Vance was carrying on an affair with Mr. Belby, fueled by the unapologetic secretary, who regaled them with tales of clandestine conferences in his office, and of his and Mrs. Vance's weekly exchanges of heavily packed manila envelopes. It was hard to imagine the cold-faced Mrs. Vance as _anyone’s_ lover, but then again, it was also incredibly alarming, each time, to see her growing belly paired with her stone-set face. That a woman like _that_ was going to be someone’s mother was absolutely _terrifying_. (There was secretly a betting pool going in the break room over whether or not the baby was Mr. Belby’s, or Linwood Vance’s. Most galleons were on Mr. Belby.)

The secretary really didn’t understand why the two of them didn’t do their wooing over owl post like every other self-respecting person, instead of flaunting their mutual infidelities to the entire floor, but that wasn’t really here nor there; she was employed to help Mr. Belby, and do so she would. Producing the requested documents from her desk drawer, the secretary forced a tight smile as she handed them over. “There we are.”

Mrs. Vance mutely exchanged it for a heavily packed envelope of her own, labelled with Mr. Belby’s named in neat near-calligraphy. “Thank you,” she managed, mouth set and seemingly desperate to flee, and the secretary figured that Mr. Belby’s love letters must be the highlight of Mrs. Vance’s week. Without so much as a good-bye, and with as much grace as a heavily pregnant woman could manage, she turned on her heels and made to leave.

In the doorway, the stranger appeared to have renewed purpose.

Plastered across his face was a smile bordering on gleeful, one that was _definitely_ knowing, and his attention was completely fixed on Mrs. Vance. As she turned she met his gaze, and quickly took a distrustful step back, making the secretary wonder if she should call security. Mrs. Vance didn’t say anything at first though; instead her eyebrows knit together in ostensible consideration, almost as though she was trying to place him.

“I know you,” she said, finally.

“Nah,” he answered, still grinning lopsidedly, weirdly charming. “You recognize me, but you don’t _know_ me, _Emmeline_ , no more than I know you. Know a few things about you, though. Been waiting here for you.” He stuck out a hand as an offer to shake. “Caradoc Dearborn.”

“Ravenclaw,” she said, eyes narrowing at his hand. She didn’t take it.

“ _Slytherin_ ,” he replied, rolling his eyes. He pulled his hand back.

The secretary wished she had popcorn, trying and failing to not look completely absorbed by whatever-it-was that was going on in front of her. The thought to call security had flitted off somewhere.

Mrs. Vance continued to watch Mr. Dearborn carefully, but remained quiet. Her hands moved around her belly, a protective, maternal gesture the secretary didn’t, in all honesty, think her capable of.

“You look like you think I’m going to _eat_ you, for Christ’s sake. I’m not Rumpelstiltskin, coming to make deals on your sprog. I just have some questions about Wolfsbane, is all.”

Mrs. Vance’s eyes narrowed again. “Why would I know anything about that? Those are better directed to Mr. Belby, or Mr. Bones. Or anyone _actually_ working on the project.”

“Well your husband is invested, for one,” Caradoc answered with a shrug, ignoring her attempted redirection. “But there’s also the fact that I think you know Mortimer Blande, hey?”

Something indiscernible flickered across Mrs. Vance’s face. “What of him?”

“Something of a potions genius, I hear. Must be, to sustain himself researching solo, outside of Mungos, or the institute.” Caradoc Dearborn looked smug. The secretary felt like she was missing something. “A little birdie told me he was consulting on the Wolfsbane project. _Some_ think Belby and Bones are in over their head, and that Blande’ll be their saviour. Those who don’t think the development itself is a waste of tax dollars, of course.”

Mrs. Vance sighed. “What is it you _want_ , Mr. Dearborn?”

“Twenty minutes of your time, sometime this week,” he answered, crossing the line from smug to cat-who-caught-the-canary. “I’ll even buy you coffee.”

“ _Charming_ ,” Mrs. Vance replied, though she looked resigned. She’d regained her composure, though, for she haughtily continued with, “Very well. You may pay visit to Froehlich Hill, my husband’s estate, for _tea_ , this coming Thursday.”

“Am I supposed to know where that is, or…?”

Mrs. Vance’s eyes flashed in a way the secretary considered dangerous. “ _Derbyshire_.”

Mr. Dearborn laughed. “I didn’t know Derbyshire could be said with such _malice_. Alright. It’s a date.” He stood aside to let her pass, nodding as though tipping an imaginary hat. “Ta. Have a spiffing rest of your day, _Mrs. Vance_.”

Mrs. Vance sniffed contemptuously, still looking unnerved. All the same she brushed past him with her chin tilted upward, keeping her words to herself. Only once she was out the door and around the corner, did Mr. Dearborn look back at the secretary.

He winked. Then he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dearborn, Caradoc Alphonse** (a.k.a. Doc)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 13 June 1954, ages 18-27
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Halfblood (muggle father, witch mother)
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Ravenclaw (1965-72)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Healer, Spell Damage (trainee & licensed, 1972-81)
>   * **Joined the Order** : March 1974
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Fabian Prewett
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : Arabella Figg, Emmeline Vance
>   * **Canon Fate** : According to Alastor Moody, Caradoc disappears six months after the infamous Order photo is taken and is never seen again. It is presumed he is murdered by Death Eaters. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 

> 
> ***
> 
>  **Vance, Emmeline Cecilia (née Gamp)** (a.k.a. Em)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 15 November 1953 (19-28)
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Pureblood
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Slytherin (1965-72), Prefect (69-72)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Experimental Potioneer
>   * **Joined the Order** : January 1975
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Caradoc Dearborn
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : ~~N/A~~
>   * **Canon Fate** : Emmeline survives the First War and rejoins the Order of the Phoenix at the onset of the Second. She participates in a number of battles but is ultimately killed by Death Eaters in 1996. Severus Snape suggests in passing that he delivered her whereabouts to Voldemort. Her loss was seen as a heavy blow to the Order. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mid-March 1973** , Vertic Alley (London), _Clock Works_ : Fine Repairers of Magical Timepieces est. 1673

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Chimaera Club, for gentleman only, was established in the early 18th century in St James', a central district in London in the City of Westminster (forming part of the West End). It was founded by the Malfoy family, and extended membership _not_ to all pureblood wizards, but to pureblood aristocracy.
> 
> \- For a family to be considered Pureblood, there would have to be no decedents of muggles or muggleborn witches and wizards for five generations (this in terms of building new dynasties, not existing pureblood families).

_Dedalus Diggle does his duties_.

_Dedalus Dillinger Diggle does his duties._

_Dedalus Dillinger Diggle diligently does his duties_. 

_Dedalus Dillinger Diggle diligently and dutifully does his duties_. 

Dedalus could keep up the alliteration for hours. He mumbled it under his breath, sometimes, but mostly he looped it around in his head, always challenging himself to piece together outlandish phrases, and to top himself (“ _Dedalus Dillinger Diggle, it doesn’t do to dream of decking the dubious and dispiriting Aunt Dorothy with dazzling decorations; don’t disuse the delightful on such a dolorous, doleful, despairing, and decrepit_ downer _!_ ”). He liked the habit for the mental exercise--unsurprisingly he had an extensive vocabulary of words that started with the letter D--but it was also one of his oldest tics. It was something he cleaved to and employed frequently; that he defaulted to in more stressful situations, and particularly when he was wrapped up in the artistry that was repairing and rebuilding watches, a.k.a. his day job. To keep his brain whirring while other reaches of it were engaged ensured, in Dedalus’ mind, that he didn’t suddenly freeze or forget how to be a person. People said, too often, that he didn’t have any sense, but he certainly had sense enough to recognize his own limitations and how to get around them. He was awkward and unnatural when it came to social interaction, frequently saying the wrong thing and cramming his foot straight into his mouth, putting people off with… well, with his _himself_ -ness. Alliteration helped. It didn’t change much, but it certainly helped his anxiety, and stopped him from dwelling on eccentricities he couldn’t always change or control. 

On top of this, adding to his self-consciousness, was the fact that Ded was absurdly tall, feeling as though he leered over everyone else by about three heads (which wasn’t entirely far off). He talked with his body, and struggled to contain the need to punctuate each word he spoke with a gesture, a gyration, or a jiggle or jig. It was inappropriate and he knew it, and so worked hard at the shop and in day-to-day conversation to keep his hands clasped together and to let himself do no more than rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. He couldn’t stop his fingers from twitching _at all_ and so felt and looked, he thought, a bit manic, like something of an off-kilter evil villain. When you threw in a chin that was likely large enough to qualify for its own postcode, a wide smile that employed use of itself whenever it felt like things were rolling too normally, and Ded’s affinity for ugly hats and bright colours, you had something of a _presence_ , to say the least. 

For all that, though, he was excellent at what he did, and beyond _him_ the store itself had a history and reputation that was big and bright enough to overshadow a gentle, well-meaning giant, despite his nervous habits. Adults were easier and more forgiving than other teenagers, too, so now the discomfort in being done with Hogwarts didn’t rub quite so raw anymore. 

Dedalus liked being at the front of the shop; his father liked to keep him there because the presence of someone fixing a watch, _right there_ , neat and clean and meticulously, really caught the attention of customers. He could answer simple questions about what he was doing easily, and Dad didn’t expect him to deal directly with the clientele (Dad and Mum really understood him, and didn't expect Ded to be someone he wasn't). He liked to listen and to watch though, and revealed in returning visits from some of the more outlandish people that Clock Works served. The Diggle family had been fixing watches and clocks for three hundred years, both in the wizarding and muggle worlds. Clock Works had stood off of Vertic Alley for 150 of that, and the family maintained a consistent enough blood status (meaning, more or less, that they were perpetually half-blooded) so as not to bother the upper crust of the pureblood sect. (At least not _much_ , anyhow.) Ded was most enamored with the way they dressed, and wondered constantly how it was they were able to look like they’d come straight out of the pages of a magazine any and every day of the week. It had to be exhausting! There were days when even Ded, who was, typically, just a big ball of get up and go, couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair, or when he had a great old spot on his enormous chin, or when he hadn’t noticed he’d dripped a bit of something onto his shirt. Society people always seemed so impossibly picturesque. 

Take the gentleman in the store right now, for example. He was relatively average-looking when it was all said and done, excusing his cheekbones, which Ded thought he might be able to slice bread with. He had sleek black hair that was graying at the temples, and wore robes of a deep set green (that looked like they were made of silk), and a finely-made, heavy wool cloak with a fur lined hood. He carried a silver cane that he did not lean on; if he needed the cane for support in any capacity it was lost on Ded because the older man’s posture was bordering on rigid. The shoes he wore were leather, probably Italian, and likely cost more than everything Dedalus’ family owned put together. 

He was curt, respectful in an off-hand and likely unintentional way, deferring to Dedalus’ father’s knowledge as a licensed Horologist. (Ded couldn’t _wait_ until the day he could claim that title. He’d been learning about watches and clocks and time and the integrated magic that brought it all together for as long as he could remember, but he’d be learning and learning for many years still before he thought he’d know even _half_ of what Dad did.) It was clear, though, through his body language, facial expressions, and carefully chosen words that he considered himself well above where he was and who he was dealing with. Ded knew that he was a Mr. Black, but couldn’t remember which one exactly, except that it definitely wasn’t Mr. Alphard Black, who wore a kindly crinkle at his eyes and would stay and talk with Dad about anything and everything for a good 45 minutes whenever he was in. This was Mr. Cygnus Black, or Mr. Orion Black, and while both were well-dressed and interesting to observe in their mannerisms and speech, neither had made a definitive enough impression--in the many times they’d both paid call on Clock Works--on Ded for him to be able to tell them apart. 

A lot of the people like that sort of melded together after a while. 

When Mr. Black left, after depositing a priceless family heirloom for repair, it was with a series of backhanded compliments concerning Dad’s blood and intelligence, and with a transparent, cruel smile that suggested the inference was not off-hand or repeated simply out of habit. It bordered on threat, a cold reminder to toe the line in a time when the upper-hand was slowly sliding away from Ministry ‘do-gooders’ with ‘no sense of proper wizarding pride’. Dad stiffened, not daring to contradict, thanking Mr. Black for his time and business and wise words. Dedalus struggled not to scowl. He _hated_ people like Mr. Black, with their vague intimidations and their unfounded sense of superiority. He hated that lunatics held so much power over good, hard-working people, people who’d been part of the magical world long enough that they should be owed their own unquestioned claim to it. 

Once he was out the door and gone, Dad stood at the cash with his fingers gripping the wood counter, and Dedalus knew he was steeling himself against the tide of the world. 

“An ill wind is blowing, Deddy,” he said, voice heartsick and low. “ _It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good_ , is what they say. And they’re right. Don’t think no different, son. And watch out for men like him. They pay us for service but to them we’re just dispensable, replaceable, _tormentable_ trash.” He laughed sadly. “Got to wonder what it’s like to live cultured like that, always inhaling the smell of your own shit, everybody telling everybody else that they’re the center of the bleeding universe.” 

Dedalus didn’t say anything. He watched his father with concern for a moment, then, when Dad didn’t keep going, eased back into his repairs. He began cycling through another bout of alliteration, ending with: “ _Bad, beastly Blacks, blackmailing the balloters; burning bridges, blessing blood wars and butchery, burdening Britain with baseless bullshit_.” 

*** 

Orion Black, heading up Vertic Alley and back to Diagon, felt momentarily satisfied. Bullying and intimidation was part and parcel of being a gentleman of stature, and giving Diggle (a jellyfish of a wizard) and his oddball offspring a reminder of their status had been both overdue and satiating. 

He was in no hurry to get back home, intending to stop at the Chimaera Club for a drink and cigar, and to read the paper in the dimmed, smoke-curled quiet he could only get from the solidarity and tradition of gender laws and reciprocal company. He would apparate shortly, but walked for now, taking in the unseasonal (for London) dust of snow falling gently around him and the somewhat extreme expressions of Irish pride gilding businesses in preparation for the following day. 

He was considering the matter of his eldest son. 

He and Walburga had received a letter from the school that morning. These sorts of owls arrived every two or three weeks, minced words for his would-be delinquent that crawled under his skin, and that made his wife scream. This time, Sirius and his merry band of miscreants had charmed toilet seats to flap around the ceiling of the Great Hall for an entire day. This was minor in the grand scheme of things, least compared to Sirius’ apparent desire to punch every other pureblood at Hogwarts at least once, not to mention that the previous week he'd caused all books in the library referencing the Dark Arts _in any capacity_ to ooze honey all over whomever opened them, or last month, when he'd charmed all the suits of armor in the castle to insult each witch or wizard who walked by, and a Severus Snape in particular. 

That was a relatively small sample of how Sirius deigned to represent his blood and breeding on a regular basis, serving as a constant reminder of his sorting, disappointment, and of the riff raff he chose to defend as _friends_. The Potter boy’s only saving grace was his blood status, but even so was barely tolerable given his parent’s political leanings and apathetic attitudes. The two halfblood sons of excuses for wizards, however--loudmouth, ignorant Lyall Lupin had married a muggle, and too-big-for-his-britches Parson Pettigrew a muggleborn--had no business associating with _his_ son, with a _Black_ , even if Sirius was a disrespectful agitator who didn’t know when to shut his mouth. 

The watch he had left at Clock Works for repair had been in the Black family dating well back to the 1830s. It was Orion’s intention to sit Sirius down during the Easter holidays and impart on him the weight of his encumbrance as future head of the family, as well as, if necessary, literally beat some sense into him. Normally a wizard received a watch when they came of age, but Orion was of the opinion that Sirius needed to be awakened to the responsibilities of his station in life, and to what was required and expected of him. He had been groomed for this from birth, and Orion would not be around forever. They were in war time, and Sirius’ allegiance was owed to the Dark Lord, and so they needed to talk of marriage, of ensuring the family line, of _duty_. There were days when Orion worried for the future of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, though he continued to pass off Sirius’ misbehavior as typically teenage, and as being representative more of the company he kept (and their influence) than of his own disposition. 

Sirius was still so young. He was brilliant, headstrong, and overflowing with potential. Orion hoped beyond all hopes that his son would leave a mark on the world for the betterment of his family. Regulus was not cut from the same cloth, did not have the same aptitude as his brother, was not capable of serving the family to the same degree. He would not be able to manage the weight. Sirius might struggle against convention, but he was certainly capable. 

Reaching the entrance to Diagon Alley, festooned with a sea of shamrocks, Orion sighed. There was no use fixating on it now. There was nothing he could do until Sirius was home again. _Then_... then he would hopefully succeed in curtailing his eldest son’s attitude and incivility. Then perhaps Sirius would finally understand what it meant to be who he was. 

Orion paused. The hoodlums would be out in full force tomorrow. _Disgusting_. Craving, more than ever, the unanimity of the club, Orion closed his eyes, lifted his cane, and disapparated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Diggle, Dedalus Dillinger** (a.k.a. Ded)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 12 February 1954, ages 19-27
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Halfblood (Halfblood father & mother)
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Hufflepuff (1965-72)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Magical Horologist (apprenticing & licensed 1973-81)
>   * **Joined the Order** : December 1977
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Sturgis Podmore
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : ~~N/A~~
>   * **Canon Fate** : Dedalus Diggle survives the First War and goes on to participate in the Second. He ultimately ends up taking Harry Potter's family, the Dursleys, into hiding (alongside future Order member Hestia Jones) after Harry comes of age in 1997. It is unknown whether or not Dedalus survives the Second War, but it is presumed that he participates in the Battle of Hogwarts. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **March 1973**  
>  \- The Shrieking Shack, Hogsmeade, Scotland  
> \- Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Gryffindor Tower, Third Year Boys' Dormitories  
> \- Poppywood Cottage, Berkshire, England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Saturday, 17 March 1973_ | St. Patrick’s Day; Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom opens the modern London Bridge; Pink Floyd's _The Dark Side of the Moon_ , one of rock's landmark albums, is released.
> 
> Death Eaters descend on the opening of the London bridge and wreak havoc on the celebrations. The Ministry of Magic is woefully unprepared. Thousands of muggles are killed, an attack is made on the Queen, and when the dust clears, two young Aurors are found dead. The entire Ministry is driven into overtime to combat the mess, and the memory charms needed are considered exorbitant. The Daily Prophet describes the aftermath as making the Tinworth Riots look like a picnic in the park. No arrests are made.

> 
> \- _Tuesday, 20 March 1973_ | A British government White Paper on Northern Ireland proposes the re-establishment of an Assembly elected by proportional representation, with a possible All-Ireland council.
> 
> \- _Wednesday, 21 March 1973_ | The Lofthouse Colliery disaster occurs in Great Britain.
> 
> ***
> 
>  
> 
> **Doge, Elphias Armand Nelson**
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 17 May 1881, ages 91-100
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Halfblood
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor (1892-99), quidditch seeker (94-99)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Barrister, International Magical Office of Law (Trainee & Licensed, 1906-1988); Wizengamot Jurist/Elder (1941-1997)
>   * **Joined the Order** : March 1973
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Albus Dumbledore
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : ~~N/A~~
>   * **Canon Fate** : Elphias survives the First War and goes on to participate in the Second upon the reinstatement of the Order of the Phoenix at Albus Dumbledore's (a childhood friend of Elphias') behest. It is presumed that he participates in the Battle of Hogwarts, and that he survives the second war (at a sprightly 117). 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 

> 
> ***
> 
>  **Dumbledore, Aberforth Augustus Merlin Philip** (a.k.a. Abe)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 28 January 1884, ages 89-97
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Pureblood
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor (1895-02), quidditch beater (99-02)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Barman, Owner of the Hog's Head Inn (1921-2019)
>   * **Joined the Order** : March 1973
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Albus Dumbledore
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : ~~N/A~~
>   * **Canon Fate** : Aberforth survives the First War and continues running The Hog's Head bar in Hogsmeade, Scotland. He maintains a cordial relationship with his brother, and indeed participates in the Second Ward as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. He aids the Trio anonymously and otherwise during their Horcrux hunt, and his bar ultimately becomes safe passage for tortured students at Hogwarts during the reign of Death Eaters Amycus and Alecto Carrow. The Hog's Head additionally acts as both a gathering and evacuation point before and during the Battle of Hogwarts. Aberforth participates in and survives the battle. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 


**Saturday, March 17th**

The scene that had unfolded between them _looked_ how most bad jokes start:

_An overweening barrister, a mad Auror, two pertinacious professors, and an idiosyncratic barkeep are sharing a strong drink on the dusty floor of a dilapidated shack. They are commiserating dolefully, exchanging bleak expressions between gulps of Ogden’s Old, which they all swig straight from the bottle. (Even Minerva.)_

Aberforth appreciated the underlying humor in the moment, and would comment dryly on it if he could find words that were not sardonic or cruel. Were he able to ignore his sagging, wrinkled skin and the creaking in his joints, he might, instead, indulge in feeling teenage, if only for the sake of displacing himself from the reality to which they were, now, _all_ bound. All he could manage, though, was to take in the ruin of what Hogsmeade residents called _The Shrieking Shack_ with a distracted and confused sort of curiosity, trying and failing to connect the noises that emitted monthly from the hovel with the stark lack of spirits currently residing there. His brother had chosen this place for a reason, after all, and not for the first nor (likely) last time in his life, Aberforth wondered what new secrets Albus was keeping.

They had already talked at length about the bridge and the Ministry’s excuse for a response, which Alastor had fully attributed to Crouch playing a self-serving game of political chess (though that would not, shock of all shocks, be what the PR department would be spinning to the _Daily Prophet_ ). Only a small team of ten had been installed for the bridge’s opening, with many assurances of safety made to the Muggle Prime Minister (with, apparently, no forewarning of an attack; in reality the intel had been withheld from the Auror department by Crouch, who'd believed it a hoax). The severity of the resulting incursion had nearly killed the bleeding queen of England, for the love of Circe, and _had_ been responsible for the deaths of thousands of Muggles. Two very young, inexperienced, and inappropriately stationed Aurors had also lost their lives. The weight of their deaths very clearly lined every inch of Alastor Moody’s face.

Outside the shack, they heard the hoots and slurred singing of the Irish, undeterred here and everywhere else from celebrating their heritage. Yes, a terrible tragedy had taken place, and yes, many people had died, but it was Aberforth’s opinion (and evidently theirs) that too many people thought that death and destruction required them to don all black and behave as though they could never be happy again. No, more power _to_ the Irish, and to anybody who braved the streets in wake of this, who wouldn’t let some barmy, homicidal arsehole with a God-complex stop them from living their lives. The more brave enough to do that, to not lock their doors and not draw their blinds, and to _not_ cower, the less likely _Lord Voldemort_ was to win. Their singing might contrast with the mood of the world, but _Why not_ , thought Aberforth, angry and defensive, _We’ve precious little left to salute, these days, and there’ll be even less before it’s all said and done. Let the sots sing_. Alastor, drink in hand, seemed to be reading Aberforth’s mind-- “ _Sláinte_ ,” he said, bemused--and tipped the bottle to toast the unseen men outside before imbibing deeply.

“ _Saying_ Stand and deliver, for you are a bold deceiver _!_  
Musha rin du-rum do du-rum da, Whack fol de daddy-o,  
Whack fol de daddy-o, There's whiskey in the jar!” They sang loudly and brashly and off-key, but with the joy of being alive and whole. (And sloshed.)

“I believe that we must now consider recruiting,” Albus said distantly, surveying them as he always did, with that patented condescension of his that made you want to please him in spite of the implication of his superiority. “I had hoped, perhaps idealistically, that we would be sustained as a group in passing on intelligence to the Ministry through our various connections, and in ensuring that all measures could be taken by the proper channels.” He sighed, deeply. “I have tried and failed in advising the Minister for Magic, who will instead take his cues from his department heads and his own deluded perceptions. We can only hope that Millicent Bagnold, in her new position, is able to corral Oxford’s panic and fear to some degree, otherwise his ability to keep the government simpatico will completely disintegrate. Whether or not she does, however, at this point, is neither here nor there. The Ministry and I stand divided in what we believe it will take to end this war, and of what is in the best interests of the people of the wizarding world.”

“What are you suggesting, precisely, Albus?” Minerva asked, managing, somehow, to look aghast, unruffled and disbelieving all at once. Even sitting cross-legged on the floor of a rattrap she was not to be crossed. “While I will not _deign_ to refer to myself as being _old_ , I am certainly _not_ the spring chicken I once was, and I do not think it reasonable to expect us to move forward as some sort of vigilante _crusaders_.”

“You’re only as old as you feel, Minerva,” Elphias interjected quietly, though he seemed unnerved. “ _I_ certainly wouldn’t want to duel you, and I can’t for a moment believe that You-Know-Who would not balk at the thought of crossing you.”

“If only it were that easy,” she replied, though not without a hint of a smile. “You flatter me, Elphias, though I should never _wish_ to wield enough power to be an adequate counter to him.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Dumbledore. “Such capacity seems as much a burden as a gift.”

“I would not ask you to do that which you do not feel capable of,” Albus said, taking the whiskey from Minerva with a nod. Aberforth wondered idly how any Hogwarts students might react to their all-knowing Headmaster and their stone-faced transfiguration professor boozing half in the dark with present company, and in such an intimate way. Likely it would be too much for their built-up illusions to handle.

“Mmm,” Minerva said, eyes narrowing.

“I am merely suggesting,” Albus continued, “that we take the necessary precautions of added protection when and where we see fit.”

Alastor, who had been watching the exchange silently and with a look of conflicted apprehension since his toast to the Irish, said, “How would you have us suggest new recruits?”

“Providing you have unshakable faith in their moral character, and aptitude, it would simply be a matter of demonstrating their value to us _through_ that aptitude,” Albus answered. _Simply_ , thought Aberforth, annoyed. _Simply, indeed_. “Did you have someone in mind, Alastor?”

Alastor nodded. “Edgar Bones.”

***

 **Monday, March 19th** (Full Moon)

“ _Reeeeeemus_.”

“Sirius, _go away_.”

“Nope-ity, nope, nope, _nope_!”

“I will murder you.”

“ _That_ , my dear, soon-to-be Mr. Loup Garou, is a terrible inference to make. Especially when I have such glad tidings. Besides, should you murder me, you would be entirely without me, and that would be absolutely _tragic_.”

“What’s tragic about _not_ having to listen to you ramble inanities at me when _I’m trying to sleep_? Sweet, merciful Morgana you always sound like you’re screaming through a Muggle bullhorn.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I choose to take it as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“All the more reason. Besides, bulls are stocky and manly and get to ram down idiots waving red flags, and then make sweet, sweet love to all the cow ladies. They are living the _dream_.”

“You are _insane_. What in the seven levels of hell do you want?”

“ _My_ , my, you’re always so terse and borderline _rude_ when you’re lurgy! You’re lucky that I am too beautiful, dashing and clever to suffer even remotely from your attempts to puncture my ego. A lesser man would be absolutely _wounded_ , you know.”

“I could wound you literally, if you’d rather. With pleasure, at this point.”

“ _Rude_. You’re just right off your trolley with homicidal rage today, aren’t you?”

"You would be too if you were turning into a bloody wolf in-- Merlin, _four hours_. Seriously, Sirius--and _shut up_ about your name--what sort of _glad bloody tidings_ are so important that you have to barge in here and prod at me like more of a nutter than usual _now_? It really couldn’t wait until tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely not. This is essential, and groundbreaking. Prepare yourself, Lupin. There’s no going back once I tell you, you know, you unappreciative _nonce_.”

“Babayaga on a biscuit, _spit it out_.”

“Right, well. _Fine_. So. There is apparently this Muggle rock-and-roll band that calls themselves _Pink Floyd_.”

“ _Sirius_.”

“They’ve made a record!”

“A _band_ made a _record_? _Somebody_ call the Aurors!”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated, _sir_. Guess what the record is called, go on.”

“Mmm. ‘Sirius Black is an Annoying Git’?”

“Wrong-o. _Dark Side of the Moon_!”

“...”

“...”

“Stop _grinning_ like that, you look _manic_. Just how many times did your mother drop you on your head when you were a baby?”

“I’ll ask Kreacher some time, I’m sure he counted. And _I’ll_ stop grinning when _you_ stop looking like you want to throw your shoes at me, seriously--and I’m _always_ Sirius, hurr hurr--this is both outstanding and _very_ appropriate.”

“Your definition of appropriate is very skewed.”

“Balderdash. The _point_ is, I _have_ said record.”

“What a shock. I am shocked. _So_ shocked. Sirius Black stole a record from a poor unsuspecting witch or wizard with Muggle relatives. _Shocked_ , I tell you.”

“Let me play it for you, _tit_.”

“Seri--Ugh, _sincerely_ , I mean?”

“The title track. With all the fervent-ness of McGonagall's starched tartan.”

“Oh, for-- _Go on_ , then.”

“ _Ace_!”

***

**Tuesday, March 20th**

The Minister and his wife were hosting a party.

Elphias had never really been much for canapes and proper manners, though the fancy to-do would make Perpentia--his wife's--week; she thrilled to abuse Elphias' position within the Wizengamot and rub elbows with the Ministry for Magic's top dogs and unabashed donators. She had been ready to go for hours, her dress robes sparkling, silken grey hair tucked smoothly, an excess (as usual) of makeup on her face.

Elphias himself was still struggling to attach his socks to their garters, and as such was only half-listening as Perpentia sat at her vanity, tittering on happily about those she thought might be attending the party and what _they_ might wear, chastising Elphias' somber attitude in the wake of their evening, all the while adjusting and readjusting her over-sized diamond earrings. He nodded and smiled as she spoke, grunting in the appropriate tone during fitting pauses in her one-sided conversation. It was perhaps unfortunate, but Elphias had long-since resigned to his love for his wife having filtered away with age. Not every relationship was cut-out for romance into wrinkled senility. All the same, when your wife's pot roast seemed a fair trade-off for a mutual lack of affection, where was the point in divorce? Elphias and Perpentia were both knocking on 92, and if they weren't happy then they were at the very least comfortable (though Elphias still thanked Circe on a daily basis that he was slowly but surely going deaf). The desire for epic passion and whirlwind melodrama had faded long before the birth of their ninth great-grandchild.

"I daresay the Malfoys will be wanting to take advantage of the grandeur of the evening," Perpentia was saying knowingly, looking back over her shoulder at her husband; Elphias had finally managed to secure his socks and had begun diligent work on his cuff-links. "From what _I've_ heard, Abraxas' son, Lucius, paid the youngest Black girl a visit on the last Hogsmeade day-- _Valentines_ \--and asked for her hand! With Cygnus' permission, _of course_. They _might_ want to wait until dear Narcissa has finished her education before making a formal announcement, but then again, I've never known the Malfoys to be the sort _not_ to take advantage of an opportunity to show off."

Elphias fought against a sudden desire to roll his eyes, instead focusing more intently on his blasted cuff-links (he swore that the damn things got smaller every time he put them on). "Indeed, indeed," he mumbled noncommittally, and Perpentia must have been satisfied by his response for she prattled on with her musings, still fiddling with her jewelry.

Malfoys and Blacks and grand pronouncements. Elphias shook his head behind his wife's back and indulged in his eye roll. It was rarely one without the other. He'd even heard that Abraxas bred _albino peacocks_.

Perpentia's excitement aside, it seemed idiotic to Elphias to be celebrating the Ministry's lack of control in the midst of everything that had happened in the last month, particularly the attack during the bridge opening. Tinworth was still attempting to rebuild itself, as well, and if the Minister thought that saying 'Pity,' and then shaking his head would suffice for addressing the prevalent issues in the current climate, then he was out of his stuffed-suit mind. It was obvious to Elphias (and to most, really) that the Ministry was faltering severely in the wake of You-Know-Who's consistently increasing control and support. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement couldn't be expected to track and catch the madman with no assurances from the head of their damn government, especially when he, apparently, thought that lavish galas would gloss terror and desperation over nicely. A world in crisis headed by a naive old Ravenclaw. Apparently the sorting hat had overlooked the Minister's lack of common sense those many years ago. Elphias couldn't. Neither, apparently, could Albus.

It had been a week now since Albus Dumbledore had formed his vigilante resistance (and he supposed he ought to watch himself criticizing Abraxas Malfoy's peacocks seeing as Albus was intent on calling their little group the _Order of the Phoenix_ ), and four days since their second meeting in the wake of London Bridge. Despite his age and doubts in his ability to fairly contribute to the proceedings, Elphias had agreed to participate, and would do so; as he had said to Minerva on St. Patrick’s Day, he was only as old as he felt after all. Some days that was undoubtedly 92, but most day he didn’t feel a minute over 30. What he, Albus, Aberforth, Minerva and Alastor were meant to do to bring about the end of a reign of terror, Elphias wasn't entirely sure, but at least now he felt as though he was _doing_ something. Even if he wasn't exactly sure of what it was, yet.

Saturday had seemed rather like a dream. Between the wizarding world looking for answers that nobody had, and the muggle world contending with bombs and extremists of their own on top of an enemy they didn't even know was there, sitting in a school circle and indulging Irish whiskey like they were youngsters again felt something like... trying to knit in the midst of a raging hurricane. Albus was right in believing that the Ministry was limited in what it could accomplish in this war, between the unimaginable lengths You-Know-Who was willing to go, and the Minister for Magic's rose-colored glasses. Albus deciding to take matters into his own hands was certainly no surprise; Alastor has spoken what was on all of their minds when he suggested that Albus just take up the Minister's mantle and be done with it, but no. No, Albus had made it very clear that, regardless of the state of things, his place was (and always would be) at Hogwarts.

"I _do_ hope the band is better than whomever it was they hired for the last event," Perpentia was saying somewhere in the distance, breaking Elphias out of a fog he hadn't realized he was in. At some point he had succeeded with his cuff-links and was sitting palms flat to his thighs, staring at his old, wrinkled, arthritic fingers. "Give me a professional over an amateur hoodlum any day. The Minister should really know better."

Elphias sighed. "Better than to hire young musicians, or better in general?" he asked, albeit quietly, though loud enough that Perpentia turned to look at him briefly. She had a relatively inscrutable expression on her face, though with seventy years of marriage behind them Elphias could spot the slight fall in her joviality. He knew she was trying to decide whether or not the conversation he was leaning toward was worthwhile or if she could avoid his frustrations by simply talking louder.

She surprised him by standing and beginning toward the door (pursing her lips and not making eye-contact), but squeezing his shoulder warmly on the way out.

Elphias listened as she carefully walked downstairs, staring at the vanity she'd vacated, which was covered in photo frames of their very large and (seemingly) constantly expanding family. He had about five minutes before she would fall back into party-goer mode and start harping on him to hurry up, or they'd be late.

Somehow the brief glimpse of the woman he used to love was more disconcerting than the state of humanity as a whole.

Elphias pushed himself off of the bed, pulled on his dinner jacket, and took his tie in hand. He would ask Perpentia to do it for him. He'd always found it remarkable how quickly and efficiently she could set a bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dumbledore, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian**
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 02 July 1881, ages 91-100
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Pureblood
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor (1892-99), Prefect (96-98), Head Boy (98-99) 
>   * **Profession(s)** : Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (1949-97); also member of the Wizengamot, Council of Magical Law, and Supreme Mugwump for the International Confederation of Wizards
>   * **Joined the Order** : March 1973
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : ~~N/A~~
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : Alastor Moody, Minerva McGonagall, Elphias Doge, Aberforth Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, James & Lily Potter
>   * **Canon Fate** : Albus survives the First War and is responsible for putting Harry Potter in the care of Lily Potter's sister, Petunia. He continues on as Headmaster, refuses the post of Minister for Magic after Millicent Bagnold's retirement, achieves a number of impressive things, and quietly creates a plan revolving around Harry Potter's ultimate showdown against Lord Voldemort. Albus is instrumental in Harry's development as a wizard, learns of the existence of Voldemort's Horcruxes and destroys one himself, reforms the Order of the Phoenix to combat Voldemort's rise to power, and arranges his death with his spy, Severus Snape (by the killing curse in June of 1997). Albus' legacy lives on long after his death (both good and bad; take Rita Skeeter's biography, for instance), and Harry Potter names his second son after the beloved professor. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 

> 
> ***
> 
>  
> 
> **McGonagall, Minerva Louise**
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 4 October 1935, ages 37-46
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Halfblood, Animagus (cat)
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor (1947-54), Prefect (51-53), Head Girl (53-54), quidditch seeker (48-54) 
>   * **Profession(s)** : Transfiguration professor (1956-98), Head of Gryffindor House (1964-98), Deputy Headmistress (1972-98)
>   * **Joined the Order** : March 1973
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Albus Dumbledore
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : ~~N/A~~
>   * **Canon Fate** : Minerva survives the First War and continues on as Transfiguration professor and Head of Gryffindor House during the interim years. She is instrumental in Harry Potter's magical development, and rejoins the Order of the Phoenix upon its reformation. She participates in the Battle of Hogwarts, taking on a leadership role in coordinating the castle's defense. She, alongside Kingsley Shacklebolt and Horace Slughorn, battle Voldemort before his showdown with Harry Potter. Minerva survives the Battle of Hogwarts and goes on to become Headmistress of the school (until her retirement in 2017). 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 

> 
> ***
> 
>  **Moody, Alastor Edward** (a.k.a. Mad-Eye)
> 
>   * **DOB/Ages (Course of Story)** : 31 March 1923, ages 49-58
>   * **Blood Status/Related** : Pureblood
>   * **House/Year/Positions** : Gryffindor (1934-41), quidditch beater (36-41)
>   * **Profession(s)** : Auror (Trainee & Licensed, 1941-89), Dueling and Cloaking training (1960-89)
>   * **Joined the Order** : March 1973
>   * **Suggested/Vouched By** : Albus Dumbledore
>   * **Suggested/Vouched For** : Edgar Bones, Frank & Alice Longbottom, Dorcas Meadowes
>   * **Canon Fate** : Alastor survives the First War and succeeds in putting a great number of Voldemort's followers in Azkaban. He continues to work with the Auror department for a number of years before retiring and becoming known as being overly paranoid. He is asked to come to Hogwarts to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for a year by Albus Dumbledore, but is kidnapped by the presumed-dead Barty Crouch Jr and subsequently impersonated. After his release from captivity, Alastor rejoins the Order of the Phoenix and becomes an instrumental tactician. He is killed during the Battle of the Seven Harrys after Mundungus Fletcher flees the scene. His body is not located by the Order, though his magical eye is later found at the Ministry of Magic by Harry Potter; Harry steals it and places it in the woods in a tree as a make-shift memorial. 
>   * **Family** : _Coming Soon_
> 



End file.
